Searching
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: All he knows is, Sam needs him.


**Searching**  
K Hanna Korossy

He walked.

Or stumbled, maybe, if the jerky scenery was any indication. He never felt the bump and shudder of falling, just hauled himself up and went on. Sammy needed him.

So he kept walking.

The whys and hows eluded him, shadows he only saw if he looked at them sideways, disappearing when he tried to focus on them. There was something about teeth and claws and…a lot more teeth, really big and yellowed ones, and fetid breath. Sammy had screamed, and Dean's world tilted and hadn't righted again. So he had to get to his little brother, or else Sam…

The cold followed the path of wetness down his face, icing it. God, would a little heat hurt anything? It was…some spring month in…some northern state, but still the ice reached down into his lungs, froze them into heavy, painful lumps in his chest. His fingers had frozen red crystals on them, too.

He fell again, felt the reverberation of that one through parts he'd thought numb. It was harder to struggle upright after, until he remembered that scream.

Sam needed him. He got up.

His feet moved because he gave them no choice. Boots stained with red—they'd need cleaning. So would his jeans. Sam was always more patient with soaking and scrubbing out blood, although his lips were always pressed tight for some time after. He could usually tease Sammy loose if he tried, and he usually tried, and not just so he wouldn't have to do the laundry. His jeans were torn, too, though, and probably not salvageable. Too bad they didn't have a clothing budget with this job…

He stopped in front of a massive tree trunk, staring uncomprehendingly at it a long moment before lurching around it. He left dark smears on the bark as he leaned on it. Ducking under a low branch nearly sent him to his knees until he stiffened them again.

Sam was hurt. He didn't have time for this.

It was dark and his eyes sometimes closed without his noticing. He didn't see much worse that way, and so he sometimes let it go. He finally tripped and fell over something.

The pain went from diffuse to jaggedly sharp, and it took him a long time to get his breath back, let alone enough strength to push himself up on all fours. He rose in unsteady stages, using desperation as a prop. Sammy was screaming somewhere, in pain, and he couldn't take the time to be sick even though, God, he wanted to. There was bile in his throat and his nose dripped and his eyes wouldn't stop leaking although he would've punched anyone who said he was crying. Well, maybe anyone but Sam. His little brother had always gotten away with murder.

Sammy had both worshipped and owned him; he was the benevolent god who would grant if asked. Sam could have abused the power if only he'd realized he had it, or maybe just if he'd wanted to, but he never had. Books, he asked for. Cereal. A shared bed after a nightmare. Nothing beyond his big brother's power to give, until he'd asked Dean to let him go.

His steps faltered, head bowing under a new weight. Maybe it was too late and there wasn't a Sam to get to. It was an old hurt, scars upon scars, but he'd forgotten. What if Sam wasn't waiting for him?

But it wasn't in his nature to give up. Not while there was any hope left, sometimes not even after. And so he shouldered the knowledge, ignored the pain that sank deeper than any of flesh and blood, and stuttered on.

He always ended up alone. Sometimes no amount of desperation or determination was enough.

One foot after another. There wasn't anything else he could do anymore. Sam needed, he was the big brother, and that was that. He was hurting and heartsick and weary, and Sam seemed so unbearably far away, but that was always that.

Branches like hands clawed at his arms, snagging him, and he pulled sluggishly to free himself. But they only tightened, shaking him.

Shaking him.

He blinked stupidly at shoes, and jeans that weren't torn, and brown that was soft and not bark. Fingers instead of branches, curled around his biceps. A checked shirt he vaguely thought was his own. A face, mouth open in sharp anxiety.

"—you hear me?"

Sam. He'd found Sam. In time.

Funny how desperation was an emotion of strength and relief was one of weakness. His knees sagged with it, neck buckling no matter how much he wanted to keep that face in sight. Fading light. Swelling joy.

"Dean, stay with me!"

Then an arm around his back, a hand under his chin. And _there _he was again. He thought maybe he had enough strength left for a grin.

"Okay. Okay, you're gonna be all right. Just hang on until I get you to the hospital."

And sometimes he was the worshipper and supplicant, cheek rubbing against warmth, the solid thump of a heartbeat against his skin. It was all he'd asked for—Sam safe and there—and the gratitude was enough that he thought he might never ask for anything again.

"Dean, say something."

His newborn strength was nothing against those determinedly twining octopus arms, and he rested his head against the solid muscle of one, finally feeling some warmth. His mouth curved into a smile.

"Dean—"

"…you okay?"

"Yes! Yes, you brain-damaged idiot, I'm fine—_you're _the one I've been chasing all over the state. At least you left a nice blood trail. Probably half the state's grizzlies are…" A sharp suck of air, then words as gentle as the hand splayed against his chest. "You scared me, Dean, all right? You should have waited—I was coming."

Too many words. All he heard was fear and _coming_. He flinched. "Sam…don't go."

The arms gripped impossibly tighter. It was even more of a promise than the suddenly ragged words. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

He didn't think it was a binding promise, a seal as tight as the grip Sam had on him, but for now it was enough. He'd found what he'd been seeking. And Sam had needed him, after all.

Dean stopped looking.

00000

The beeping he recognized, God help him, as well as the smell. Not just from hospitals but a hundred little patching-up sessions in a hundred little bathrooms, most as cold as this place was.

The voice he recognized, too, as well as the exhaustion in it, the flat tones that spoke of hope that was more willed than felt.

"'…shares are down ten points, but are expected to rebound after first quarter earnings are announced—'"

"…business section?" The words scraped his dry mouth raw.

A crinkle of newsprint and a whiff of sweat announced his brother's approach. "You weren't awake to hear it—I figured I might as well read something I wanted to hear." A warm hand curled through his cold one. "Thanks for waking up."

There were more facets to Sam than a rare diamond and they never got old. Well, except maybe the game-show fetish one. Dean's mouth twitched, his eyes less cooperative. "You okay?"

"For the fourth time, yes. You're not. Now go back to sleep before the nurse notices you're up and gives you that sponge bath she's been threatening."

His eyebrow tugged. "Nurse?"

"Remember that wrinkled thing we killed down in Missouri?"

He winced, or at least thought he did.

"Go back to sleep, Dean." Softly. "You're not missing anything here."

Not what he wanted to know.

"I've got your back."

There it was. Same promise, different words. Just like the fingers that had fit between his ever since Sam was born. "Sam?" he whispered.

"Yeah?"

He said it just to feel Sam's grip tighten. "Comics nex' time."

It did. And with a smile, Dean went back to sleep.

**The End**


End file.
